


Chocolate Syrup

by LiliGrey



Series: Mocha [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, Mocha, Very domestic, a bit of angst near the end, basically Illya's emotional journey, boys falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8120767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliGrey/pseuds/LiliGrey
Summary: Napoleon Solo is a man of many talents. And business investments. His most recent investment happens to be an extremely popular coffee shop right across the street from U.N.C.L.E headquarters, with a name that a certain Russian agent just can’t resist…
Sequel to "Beef Stroganoff", portraying snippets of Napoleon and Illya’s lives in New York after their initial meeting in Rome. Could potentially be read on its own, although the story would make more sense to be read in series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As you can probably infer from the title, this one is going to be toothachingly sweet, and ridiculously domestic :) And to show that Illya is actually a big marshmallow, I have made his favourite coffee Mocha :D
> 
> The Mocha series would be Chocolate Syrup, Double Espresso and Steamed Milk. The names sort of explain themselves :)

Illya Kuryakin, U.N.C.L.E.’s top agent in New York, has a secret that very few people knew about. It is not a secret that would compromise his organization; nor one that would have dire consequences if it were found out, but it is a secret he would not admit to under pain of death.

 

He loves mocha.

 

Only two people alive knew this secret. One is his partner of three years, Gaby Teller, who had laughed herself silly and teased him endlessly when she found out about it. (He had ignored her for three solid weeks, and she had bought him a very large mug of mocha to apologise before he forgave her.)

 

The other person is his Cowboy, Napoleon Solo. Napoleon isn’t an actual Cowboy, of course. In fact, they met in Rome during one of Illya’s missions, where Napoleon had been his civilian host, to keep his cover as a tourist. Napoleon also happens to be the most interesting, charming and gorgeous person he had ever met, even given his line of work.

 

One of the last conversations they had, was in fact about Illya’s favourite coffee. Having failed to get a straight answer out of Illya, Cowboy had pestered him endlessly right until they got to the airport, where Illya had finally caved and told him the truth, albeit reluctantly.

 

Unlike Gaby though, Napoleon had looked a bit thoughtful, then smiled mischievously, with incredible fondness in his eyes. “Of course it’s mocha.” Then proceeded to give him a hug and promptly disappeared into the crowd, leaving a perplexed and flummoxed Russian agent staring after him.

 

They haven’t met or spoken since.

 

Illya blamed it on his work, as he was taken on two back to back missions straight after his stay in Rome, where the second one landed him in a hospital bed for a week. That had been last month, and things have quieted down a bit since.

 

He often toyed with the post-it note Napoleon had written his number on. It was an affronting shade of pink. He had, of course, memorized the number backwards and forwards, but somehow he just didn’t have the heart to throw the now useless scrap of paper away.

 

After another gaggle of very female secretaries and finance staff walked past, waxing poetry about the barista at the new coffee shop, with the tantalizing smell of mocha trailing behind them, Illya finally decided he’s had enough of doing paperwork with a pounding headache, and decided to take an impromptu stroll.

 

Once outside, he almost subconsciously followed the faint odour of sweet chocolate and fragrant coffee, and before he knew it, he found himself standing outside the open doorway of the new coffee shop, with the simple name of “Mocha”. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to take in the warm, welcoming scent.

 

“And how may I help you today, my dear Russian friend?”

 

Illya’s eyes snapped open. There, standing behind the counter, hips leaning casually against the bar top, was the one man that seemed to have somehow got under his skin and he could not stop his mind from thinking about all these months.

 

“Cowboy.” He murmured.

 

“Welcome to my humble abode, Peril.” Napoleon Solo said with a wide, joyous smile that lit up the room like sunshine.

 

//////////

 

Whenever Illya was back in New York, he would frequent his Cowboy’s very popular and successful coffee shop. Sometimes he would come in the early morning, sitting there with one of Napoleon’s delicious concoctions, drafting up his mission report, or just play Sudoku, whilst watching Cowboy attend to his customers and admiring that apron clad figure. Some days he would come during the rush hour of lunch, for a quick sugary fix and an exchange of words and glances, the inevitable brush of fingers against fingers when he takes his drink. However, his favourite time to visit was during the quiet lull of the afternoon, when the coffee shop was mostly empty, and he could have Napoleon all to himself. They would chat about anything and everything, from the origins of the first coffee bean to the different merits of beaches around the world.

 

Everyone at headquarters now knew the secret that their favourite Russian agent has a fondness for mocha, and also that gorgeous barista in the coffee shop across the road. They all thought it was rather sweet.

 

Illya found that he didn’t particularly mind.

 

Sometimes, when Illya was still around when the coffee shop closes, Napoleon would invite him up for dinner at his apartment above the shop. And every time, it was an offer too tantalizing to refuse.

 

Napoleon, true to his claim as an overqualified chef, seemed to be able to cook up anything, although he always seemed to struggle to produce an authentic Chinese stir-fry.

 

“The recipes are just so inexact! How was I supposed to know how much is ‘a liberal amount of salt’?” Napoleon had tried valiantly to defend his culinary skills.

 

“Cowboy is cowboy, not chef.” Illya had teased, whilst stealing another piece of rather salty but still delicious satay chicken from the wok. He got whacked on the knuckles for his cheek. Sometimes his Cowboy has very fast reflexes.

 

Pride wounded, Napoleon had been adamant to prove that he was indeed, a very talented chef.

 

The next time Illya was back in New York, the minute he set foot onto American soil, he got the orders to buy fresh aubergines, a bulb of garlic, pork shoulder meat and coriander. Sighing, and stomach grumbling, he went to do just that. He _was_ rather good at following orders.

 

Two hours and some very hard work of skinning aubergines and mincing pork later, Illya found himself sitting eagerly at Napoleon’s table, as the other man expertly fished noodles out of the pot with his bamboo chopsticks, ladling a generous portion of the stir-fry on top.

 

He eyed the aubergines with some doubt and suspicion. He never liked the strange vegetable, and there’s far too little meat in this dish for his taste. Napoleon just rolled his eyes and told him he’ll love it.

 

He did.

 

His eyes widened at the first bite and he almost scalded himself as he wolfed down the dish. All the while, Napoleon smiled smugly at him, the pride and satisfaction of a job well done making his eyes twinkle. Illya found himself having second, and then third helpings.

 

He couldn’t have enough of that smile.

 

Every time, he would offer to do the dishes, and every time, he could feel the heat of Napoleon’s gaze behind him.

 

Each night, before he leave, he would linger in the open doorway, and they would drag out the inane chit chat, until Napoleon started to shiver a bit in the cold of the hallway. He would reluctantly say good night to his Cowboy, and take his leave.

 

The air would hang heavy between them. Heavy with the promise of something Illya never thought he would deserve to have again.

 

//////////

 

Illya had just finished a rather exerting chase, which involved jumping over boats and rooftops and too much water for his liking. He and Gaby had caught the traitor with the stolen disk in the end and are now walking back to their rendezvous point in companionable silence.

 

A flash of gold caught his gaze and he turned to find a shop selling bedroom furniture. In the middle of their display was a large king-sized bed with bright red bed spreads. What had caught Illya’s attention, however, was the bed throw on top.

 

It was the exact shade of gold Napoleon had been searching for in weeks.

 

Napoleon, being restless, like the cowboy he is, always seems to need somewhere exotic to explore and something new to discover. His most recent fascination had been interior designing. It makes sense, as Napoleon has so many properties.

 

The last time he had been home, Napoleon had shown him a portfolio of a lovely little villa by the seaside that he had recently purchased, excitedly describing all the different ways he could furnish it and asking Illya for advice. Having stayed at safehouses and hotels more often than he ever stayed in a purely residential place, he had been at a complete loss on how to comment.

 

Napoleon didn’t seem to mind. The enthusiasm was evident in him and Illya had the privilege to see such a lively and almost childishly over-excited side of his Cowboy.

 

Then Napoleon had shown him his design for the bedroom and Illya found his attention completely zoom in on the king-sized bed, covered in sheets of royal purple.

 

“I think the colour works well with the wall paper. There just seems to be something missing though. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Napoleon had frowned at the picture.

 

“Gold.” Illya said without thinking.

 

Napoleon’s eyes lit up. “Of course! You are a natural, Peril. I’ll make a designer out of you yet.” He smirked at Illya and had then proceeded to excitedly look through colour logs, but Illya paid only cursory attention.

 

His mind had short-circuited on the image of his Cowboy, stretched out languidly on the large bed, the sensual purple contrasting with pale skin, golden silk sliding across sweat glistened…

 

“Illya. Illya? Are you alright?” Gaby’s concerned voice shook him out of his thoughts and the erotic place his brain had wandered to.

 

“Yes. Just. Tired, maybe.”

 

He had walked briskly away after that, not seeing the calculated look Gaby sent after him.

 

//////////

 

Illya stopped outside the open doorway of his favourite coffee shop, taking in the sight of his Cowboy hunched over the counter top, completely immersed in his task of scratching charcoal over his sketchpad.

 

He silently slid into the shop and behind the counter, looming over Cowboy’s shoulder to look at what he’s sketching.

 

It was a portrait of him. From the background, he could tell that it was when they were inside the coffee shop. They were both leaning against the counter, and Illya was holding a mug in his hands with several little cups lining the counter behind him. Cowboy had made him try different recipes that time. He still recalled their conversation.

 

“So, which one of them is your favourite?” Napoleon had asked him eagerly.

 

“Mocha. I said. Remember?”

 

“Yes, I know, which is why all of them are mocha, just made in slightly different ways.” Napoleon replied with a patience that was normally reserved for small children, and deliberately obtuse Russians. “So which do you prefer?”

 

He had pointed at the last one and Napoleon had looked thoughtful. “Chocolate syrup, double espresso and steamed milk. No toppings?” He was muttering to himself at that point and had then quickly disappeared into the kitchen area.

 

In the sketch, Illya had a smudge of foam on his lips and his brow was furrowed, but he was smiling, as if he couldn’t decide whether he should be exasperated or fond. He was shocked at how accurately his Cowboy captured him on paper, in black and white.

 

“You draw very well.” He couldn’t help but compliment.

 

Napoleon started and backed directly into the firm wall of muscle behind him. Illya caught him by the shoulders, and they found themselves completely pressed together. Napoleon turned to look at him, eyes still a bit wide from the surprise. Their faces were mere inches apart.

 

Napoleon’s lips were parted, and Illya could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over his cheekbone. His eyes lingered on those lips, slightly swollen as if its owner had just recently worried it with teeth. Napoleon’s eyes widened further. If he just dipped his head a little…

 

“Careful.” He murmured, and let go of those well defined shoulders, body immediately missing the contact.

 

Napoleon still looked a bit dumbstruck at the whole incident, and it was a few seconds before he blinked in rapid succession and smiled a bit shyly at Illya.

 

“Thank you. Do you like it?” His Cowboy asked somewhat nervously.

 

Illya traced his fingertips along the sketch, seeing himself from Napoleon’s eyes.

 

“Yes, I like it.”

 

He meant his words, but the gaze he sent Napoleon meant something more.

 

//////////

 

"How long now? Should not compliment Cowboy next time." A week later, Illya found himself grumbling on the living room couch, his shoulders getting stiff at having to pose for hours.

 

"Hey! Careful, or you won't get that lovely cheese cake I just put in the fridge." Cowboy replied playfully, his head poking out behind the canvass, brandishing a paint brush in an admonishing manner. However, the streak of blue paint on his cheek ruined that effect. Illya found his hands itching to brush that paint off. He toyed with the knight in his hand some more and returned his gaze to the chess board, still muttering complaints under his breath.

 

“Knight to….oh what was it, E5.” Napoleon said somewhat distractedly behind the canvass.

 

Illya moved the piece as directed and observed the board. After a few minutes of silence broken only by the sound of brush over canvass, he commented, “You lose in three moves, Cowboy.”

 

“Hmm? Oh, in that case, I will distract you with my charming personality and steal your bishop.”

 

“No cheating.” He complained.

 

“I always cheat.” Napoleon stuck out his tongue at him and gave him a wide, unrepentant grin.

 

Illya just shook his head exasperatedly, obligingly moving his bishop off the board. “I still win.”

 

Napoleon hummed. “Of course you do, chess champion of the year. But it’s still fun stealing your pieces.”

 

From this angle, he cannot see Napoleon’s face, but he can imagine him frowning in concentration as he tried to get the shadowing and the colour just right, worrying his lips between his teeth. Somehow, the more he knows about his Cowboy, the more mysterious he seems to become.

 

"What you study, Cowboy?" His curiosity finally won out.

 

"Double major classics and art."

 

Of course he did. Illya snorted. His Cowboy never does things the easy way.

 

Later, when Napoleon finally finished, he refused to show it to Illya, saying that there are some finishing touches he wanted to add later. He even went as far as to threaten him with the withdrawal of food if Illya tried to sneak a peek.

 

Illya pouted and agreed reluctantly. As Napoleon was just finishing up preparing their dinner, he quickly slipped away with the excuse of a bathroom trip, and detoured back to the painting.

 

Turning on the light, he took in the vibrant colours and astonishingly accurate details, and found his breath catch in his throat.

 

Looking at the position of the pieces on the chessboard, he could tell this was the time when Napoleon had just cheated for the third time. In the painting, he was holding his knight in his fingers, having just taken it off the board, and there was an indulgent smile on his face and a profound fondness in his eyes.

 

It was a look that said, _I will promise you everything in the world to make you happy._

 

It was a look that said, _I am utterly, helplessly falling in love with you._

 

//////////

 

Illya had sworn to keep his work separate from his life, as he did not want to ever bring the violence and the pain back to his only sanctuary. He had always made it a habit to never call Napoleon unless he was done with a mission and safely back on US soil.

 

There were times when stress and nightmares catch up with him, when the pain from torture and wounds threatened to overwhelm him, when he genuinely believed he would not make it back from the field, he had wanted to call Napoleon but he didn’t.

 

This time it was different.

 

He felt his fingers tremble against his thigh and felt that old urge to break something.

 

Everything.

 

Anything.

 

Anything to keep the horror and disgust at bay. Disgust at himself for becoming a monster.

 

This time, he had knowingly, with complete clarity in exactly what he was doing, shot an innocent in the head. In order to maintain his cover, and save millions of lives by destroying the biochemical weapon.

 

He can still see hear the begging cries, taste the blood in the air, see the exact moment when the life drained from those tear filled eyes.

 

He called Napoleon.

 

"Peril?" On the other side of the line, Napoleon’s voice was thick with sleep.

 

Breath in, breath out, but words wouldn't come.

 

"Illya, are you alright?" Napoleon sounded more awake this time, and a little bit alarmed.

 

"Just. Don't stop. Talk." His voice came out strangled.

 

“Please.” _I want to hear your voice._

 

Napoleon always seemed to understand exactly what he needed the most. After a brief pause, he began to talk.

 

Napoleon talked about the everyday things in his week, the anecdotes the patrons at his cafe told him about, a new recipe he was experimenting on, the new 007 movie he watched, and that he was thinking of potentially designing some cuff links.

 

"Surely, it won't be that different from interior designing, you know, so I thought I might give it a try." Napoleon said jokingly.

 

His voice was calm and light, as if this was just one of their conversations over Napoleon’s latest brew, sitting together in the coffee shop on a rainy day that kept them indoors. Illya drank in every single word like a lost man in the dessert, dying of thirst.

 

For hours, Illya just sat on the bed and listened, until Napoleon’s voice grew smaller and the pauses between his tales grew longer and he gradually drifted off to sleep. Until the beast and darkness within him was finally calmed, and he found his center once more.

 

He kept the line open and just listened to Napoleon breathe.

 

//////////

 

It was a weary soul that came back to New York this time. This mission had demanded more of him than he can give.

 

He went through the steps of getting out of the airport mechanically, like he had done hundreds of times in his life. He watched people dash past him, some into the arms of long separated family and waiting lovers, some striding towards the car park or transport, eager to be getting on with the next stage of their lives.

 

Perhaps he ought to take up Waverly’s offer of a holiday this time.

 

He walked out into the Arrivals area, eyes automatically scanning for his U.N.C.L.E. contact, but his gaze froze on the one man he least expected to see.

 

Napoleon was waving at him from the crowd, a warm smile lighting up his face.

 

Illya just stood there, rooted to the ground, his eyes fogging up. His emotions are in complete turmoil.

 

He might not be sure if this feeling is love, but he knows this feeling.

 

It’s like coming home.

 

Napoleon had walked up to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. The sweet smell of mocha followed him. He stuffed the warm drink into Illya’s hand.

 

Illya took a cautious sip and felt the taste explode across his tongue. Looking into those tender and always, always understanding eyes, he worked around the lump in his throat and squeezed out a gruff, “Yours better.”

 

Napoleon laughed, cheeks glowing.

 

His Cowboy dropped him off at his apartment, but instead of leaving, he watched Illya open his door and lingered in the doorway, his face unusually solemn, as if he has something very important that he needed to say.

 

"Peril. Have you got plans for the weekend?” Napoleon looked straight into his eyes, his voice light but the tense lines of his shoulders betrayed his emotions. “I was thinking of trying out this new Italian place."

 

"No. No, plans." Illya replied.

 

"Great. It's a date then." His Cowboy looked at him seriously, and they both knew the exact meaning of Napoleon’s words.

 

"Yes. It is a date." Illya replied just as serious, having finally made up his mind. He will never let this beautiful man go.

 

Napoleon smiled up at him, as if Illya had just promised him everything in the world.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> How the boys have not kissed at this point, I have no idea. Imagine all that sexual tension building up and up and up! It's not my fault, Napoleon, blame it all on Illya! :D 
> 
> Keep an eye (and maybe some tissues? ) out for the next one. (Evil grin)


End file.
